


Afanasiy

by auberus, Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: Afanasiy [1]
Category: Burn Notice, Highlander
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chains, Crossover, Dubious Consent, GFY, Knives, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:23:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberus/pseuds/auberus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Weston isn't sure what the gun-runner's game is. All he knows is he's out-classed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story is finished, just in the process of being edited, so there will be semi-regular updates, probably about once a month.

He's always alone unless he requires temporary muscle to move crates of guns from one form of transport to another; his reactions to threats are honed by millennia of survival, and anyone who gets close enough for him to sense they are a potential threat aren't generally allowed to become an actual threat. Of course, his definition of a threat is entirely different from most, and if something is enough of one that he doesn't feel he can take care of it, the bodyguards other gun-runners are so fond of aren't going to be much use.

It's given him a rather dangerous reputation that he uses to his advantage when negotiating prices for the guns he purchases on the black market in Russia, and brings to his villa very near a little town on the Mediterranean coast of Northern Africa. A location that while it makes him a little more vulnerable, provides him with the comfort of a cool breeze off the ocean, a private beach, and a lovely view.

That it also means his customers tend to be more uncomfortable because of the exposed nature of his home and office is only a bonus.

Methos looks over the small table that occupies a prime view on the balcony, and smiles to himself before he settles into the chair that has a better sight-line to the door to wait for his latest customer. He should, after all, be arriving soon.

* * *

_When you're an American spy who isn't technically connected with any one particular agency, it leaves you a little more leeway when it comes to doing your job. It also means that you tend to get the jobs your government doesn't want to have tied back to them directly - such as persuading an influential gun-runner to stop selling to certain clients, some of whom the United States need to remain on good terms with. On that sort of job, it's best not to approach your mark as an American. That's one of the reasons it's good to learn at least one foreign language fluently. More than one is better._

_I tend to prefer pretending to be a Russian. I speak the language like a St. Petersburg native - and since the Cold War ended, pretending to be a Russian with money is more than enough to explain away a taste for wearing Armani even when it doesn't exactly blend in. Add a few heavy gold chains and make sure your shoes are handmade, and you're probably good to go._

_It gets a little more complicated, however, when you're actually pretending to be an FSB officer - Russian intelligence - covered as a Russian businessman. There have to be some false notes in your disguise - but if they're too glaringly obvious, you'll be labeled an amateur, and dealt with accordingly. Amateurs don't last long in the intelligence business. Fortunately for me, I'm not an amateur._

_The shirt under the suit isn't quite as good quality as the rest of it, the jacket is just tight enough to hint at a gun at the small of my back, and as long as I'm careful to keep my eyes from revealing anything at all, the disguise is pretty much impenetrable. I've been using it for months, working my way through a long list of gun runners who have been helping weapons into various US-unfriendly hands. It's been a messy op - two deaths and four broken ribs (those were mine). I have a feeling it's not going to get any easier._

* * *

Michael doesn't even have a **name** for this contact, or anything beyond a vague description. All he knows is this particular gun runner has serious clout, is physically dangerous one-on-one - most gun runners prefer bodyguards - and that if he makes a misstep, he's liable to end up a decomposing pile of bones out in the desert somewhere.

At the address Michael's been given, the guy who answers the door doesn't look like bodyguard material. A lot of them don't. Michael gives him a once-over that's just a little too professional for the businessman he's pretending to be, and hands him a card. It says the holder is one Viktor Aleksandrovich Sergeyev, Baltic Transport Services. It's a shell company that the FSB uses on a fairly regular basis, and the name belongs to one of their mid-level executives who's currently on the Black Sea for a vacation. When pretending to be someone else, it's best if that person is out of town at the time.

"Come straight in," the servant says in Arabic, and Michael raises mental eyebrows in surprise. His mark has to be pretty confident in his abilities. He doesn't answer, because his cover wouldn't; instead he follows him to a balcony with a spectacular ocean view.

Michael hates balconies with spectacular ocean views. They're not as bad as the ones that overlook a city, but he can't quite shake the feeling that someone's out there with a sniper rifle aimed at his head. Luckily, he's learned to smile with an actual pistol in his face, so the theoretical ones aren't quite as much trouble as they used to be.

The man he's here to meet could be any one of a number of nationalities - high cheekbones, prominent nose, dark-haired. He looks a similar age with Michael, and built like he knows how to handle himself. He's also no one Michael wants to get on the wrong side of; Michael's learned to trust his instincts, and they're telling him that the man is potentially very dangerous indeed.

"Viktor Sergeyev." He offers his hand. "Baltic Transport. It's a pleasure, Mr. - " He gives the English words a Russian flavoring, since English is the usual language of choice for gun runners.

"You can call me Afanasiy," he responds in Russian, ignoring the offered hand. He watches Michael with an opaque expression that gives nothing away of what he's thinking, save something that might be amusement or might be curiosity. "Please, sit down, Viktor." He switches to Arabic, calling out to his butler to have vodka and caviar brought out, all the while never taking his gaze off Michael.

One of the major irritations of taking on a cover identity from another cultures is that certain things would be expected of him. The assumption (generally correct) that all Russians enjoy caviar and vodka has never particularly bothered Michael, at least so far as the vodka goes. Unfortunately, he **hates** caviar. He also hates sheep's eyes, and he's learned to eat those with a smile, too.

Like any good Russian, he waits until after the obligatory first toasts before broaching - obliquely, of course - the reason for his visit.

"Mr. Afanasiy," he says, pouring another round of drinks, "it's come to my company's attention that you've been selling your product to a Rashid Khan."

"Has it?" Afanasiy gives Michael a smile that's no more helpful than his previous expression before picking up his drink, and tossing it down with the ease of a long-time drinker or a good operative.

The real problem with playing a Russian right now is that Afanasiy is going to expect Michael to drink like one. Since the average Russian drinks vodka like it's water, it could be a problem if he hadn't spent a lot of time learning to shoot straight while under the influence - and to think straight, too. Pouring himself another drink, he toasts, and throws it back as well.

* * *

_Always, always mix as much truth into a lie as you can. It makes it easier to direct the person you're lying to towards the conclusion you want them to make when they can confirm some of the things you tell them._

_Something especially useful to keep in mind when lying to gun runners who are confident enough to not have even one bodyguard around when they're meeting a potential customer or supplier._

* * *

"Yes. We are prepared to pay you a significant amount of money if you will arrange for these deliveries to end up in other hands from now on."

Methos doesn't respond right away, the usual bland expression of his current guise keeping his thoughts to himself as he fixes himself some caviar, chewing it over for a moment while he watches Viktor. He's not familiar enough with either Baltic Transport or the FSB to be entirely certain the man isn't with either, but he doubts he really is Viktor Sergeyev. Not that Methos intends to let him know until he's picked the ruse apart further.

"What is your interest in who I sell to, Viktor?" It's only one of the questions Methos wants answered, but he doesn't ask what Viktor's real name is, or his real affiliation. He might excuse the assumption that the name Methos provided was a surname, though it's not likely, but the man's cover is lacking. For one, he's not here to renegotiate the standing bribe Methos pays the FSB to leave him well enough alone.

"Khan is selling his weapons to the Chechens. My company has certain business interests there that are being disrupted by all of the violence. We would like it to stop; it is damaging our profits." Viktor pours himself another drink, tosses is back. He's not showing any signs of inebriation, but Methos wouldn't expect him to, regardless of the truth of his cover. "Transports are being raided, employees are being killed, and we are having to pay too much in death benefits to their families." He smiles tightly. "I am authorized to tell you that if you do not stop shipments to Khan, we will be forced to take steps. With suitable compensation for your financial losses, of course."

"Suitable compensation?" Methos raises an eyebrow, letting a bit of his curiosity show on his face deliberately. This, in addition to the hints of some game beyond the obvious being played, are merely whetting his appetite, but it is entertaining for the moment. Almost as entertaining as the reasons behind his purchases and sales, and watching mortals hell-bent on destruction use them on each other.

Of course, he has no intention of stopping selling weapons to Rashid, so long as the money is good, though he's interested in finding out how much Viktor's employer - the real one, not the Russians - is willing to pay to keep him from doing so.

"Are profits truly so bad you think paying me a bribe is more fiscally sound?" A bribe, or just reimbursement of Methos doing the same to the FSB.

"In the long run, yes." It could be true, though, even if Methos doesn't think that Viktor's reasons are what he's touting. "The Chechens are in the way of some expansion plans, and if Rashid Khan were to stop supplying them, they would be much easier for us to sweep from the path."

And for all that it could be - and probably is - true, Methos finds the excuse grating. Perhaps he's getting impatient as he gets older, but he thinks it's time to bring the first round of the game to a close. Not that the game's over then.

"I'm sure they would be." Methos tosses back another shot of vodka, giving Viktor a smile that holds an edge of irritation. "And I'm sure Russia and Baltic Transport would both appreciate if their own surplus weapons were no longer turned against them. I'm not sure you can provide me enough compensation to make up for the irony of that. Viktor." He puts just enough of a pause in front of the name to allow the man a chance to realize that Methos knows his cover is bogus.

* * *

_That sort of pause is a very bad thing. It's worse when your cover is multilayered. Has your mark seen through one layer, or all of them? How much does he know - how much has he guessed?_

_If you think you're under suspicion, you act casual. Pour another drink - and hold onto it. A tumbler full of alcohol in the face burns the eyes, and the damage the glass does following close behind it can often combine to give you enough time to get away._

* * *

"Twenty million US should compensate for a lot irony," Michael offers, along with the smile he usually reserves for people who are holding a gun to his head. It looks casual, tends to be disarming, and gives nothing away - especially the litany of curses running through his head right then.

He refreshes his vodka, and sips casually at it this time, rather than draining it all at once, while keeping a smile on his face. "Don't forget; we can simply stop supplying you. Then you won't have weapons to sell to anyone." It's a threat that only someone with authority in Russia would be able to make, and he's hoping it proves a good distraction; he's accepting the loss of one layer of a cover and moving onto the next.

"If you had the authority to order that done, I might be concerned." Afanasiy sprawls a little more in his chair, his lips stretching in a lazy smile that's nothing less than predatory. "You should brush up on your Russian sometime."

Michael can feel his smile freeze on his face, and debates throwing the vodka and making a break for it. His handler won't be happy, but since he's the one who set up the cover, he won't have too much a right to complain if the results aren't what he wanted.

"I can make sure that your transports are stopped, that much I promise you." It would involve pissing off the Russians even more than he already has, and it would take some time, but he's done it before - and more besides. He's earned every bit of his reputation.

"Take the money," Michael suggests. "Spare both of us a great deal of trouble and expense."

"You really ought to brush up on your Russian," Afanasiy repeats, pouring himself another shot of vodka, a gleam in his eyes as he watches Michael. "Or you could simply call whoever did such a shoddy job on your research, and ask them what 'Afanasiy' means. I can wait, or I can have a book brought if you'd rather look it up yourself."

"Thank you, but I'm not much of a reader. I'm much more interested in actions." If his name means what Michael thinks it does, he's in a lot more trouble than he originally expected to walk into. People who pick those kinds of pseudonyms tend to have read way too many Bond novels, and they have a tendency to act accordingly. They're amateurs, and that makes them dangerous.

Except something's telling him that Afanasiy's as professional as they come. Suddenly he's in deep water - and he has no idea what sorts of sharks are swimming around in the water with him. "If we're both fortunate, you'll take those actions which are appropriate. Now, if you'll excuse me?" He needs to talk to his handler **now**.

"Appropriate by whose standards, friend?" Afanasiy asks quietly, holding Viktor's gaze steadily. "It would be useful to know which ones you're operating on."

Even though he can't show fear, it's impossible for Michael to hide the telltale physical signs that a trained eye can always spot - and right now, he isn't sure that anger is any safer an option to explain the reactions, which leaves annoyance as the next best option.

"I believe I've already made myself more than clear. Your business with Rashid Khan is directly responsible for numerous civilian deaths." The minute the words are out of his mouth, Michael knows he's made a mistake. Russians don't generally care about civilian deaths. FSB officers are **trained** not to care. Tossing back his vodka won't cover his slip, but it lets him play for time. "Those deaths cost money. We have to find new workers, train them, pay the families of the deceased - it's getting expensive, for my government as well as for my country."

* * *

_When you're cornered, you never admit anything. Oh, if you're tortured you will, eventually, break - everyone does. Until that moment comes, though - **never admit anything**._

_And if you have to retreat from a cover, you're in serious trouble. No one likes being lied to, especially people who tend to lie a lot themselves. If you have to change your cover on the fly, you have to pick one you can maintain._

* * *

Methos chuckles, real amusement on his face a moment. "I doubt they care how many civilians die, friend. They're nothing important, to Russia or to me." He keeps his voice quiet, forcing Viktor to stay close in order to hear him. "Twenty million US is nothing." He leans back, giving the illusion of relaxing. "Now, who are you really working for?"

Not that it really matters, in the long run, who Viktor is actually working for. It's not going to stop Methos from selling Russian guns to Rashid, nor are the threats to stop his gun shipments going to make him flinch. He's tired of hiding - hiding what he is, or what he's capable of. If someone decides to really try to shut him down, he's content to let humanity suffer the consequences of that stupidity.

"The deaths are nothing in and of themselves. It's the sheer cost of them." Viktor pauses, his gaze flickering over Methos to take in his posture - and likely not believing it at all. "And what the hell are you trying to insinuate with **that** question, _friend_?"

"I'm not insinuating anything. I'm asking politely who you're working for." The implication is, of course, that he won't continue to be polite if he doesn't get an honest answer soon. Methos is enjoying watching Viktor try to cling to his cover, even though it's been blown. It might even be worth letting him go to see if Methos can draw him back to play with some more. Certainly there will be time enough to do so.

"My card." Viktor flips one onto the table with every sign of casual arrogance. "You are, I am sure, aware as to who, exactly, has a controlling interest in Baltic Transport?"

"The recipients of my generosity." The faint, casual smile Methos has been wearing slips away, leaving the bored predator beneath that mask bare. "Care to try one last time?"

He's not even planning to put a bullet in Viktor's head, not yet. No bullets at all, really, unless things become truly ugly, and even then, Methos would rather toy with him than kill him. For all that he's changed in the three millennia since the Horsemen, for all that being around MacLeod has made him make an attempt at being a better man, he still remembers how much a thrill holding a person's life in his hands can be. How enjoyable he'd once found toying with mortals and Immortals alike, until they bored him or broke.

Viktor fills his glass of vodka slowly, tension in the action that almost makes Methos smile. "I'm with UOP." It's a reasonable fall-back if it's not the truth, since Methos knows they have their own issues with Rashid and his buyers.

And with Methos' Polish being more than a century out of date, and his last visit to the country too long ago to be certain of much of anything, there's no way to be certain of the truth.

"And your interest in stopping my sales to Rashid?" he asks, keeping the conversation in Russian. He reaches out as he speaks, removing the vodka bottle from the table, and setting aside on the railing of the balcony out of Viktor's reach. There's still a shot glass full, but he's not terribly concerned about it. Either Viktor will drink it, and remove it as a potential threat, or he'll use it, and Methos can make use of the stun gun he carries.

"Some of Russia's problems are our problems too. Rashid Khan is one of them. We have no interest in returning to Communist ways, but there are groups in my country who are. The rest of it is the truth. I can stop your transports to Rashid Khan, and I will, if you don't take the pay-off and start cooperating." Viktor's hands are on the arms of his chair, a fine tremor just visible as if he's barely restraining himself from some rash action.

"You still haven't given me a good reason to cooperate, friend." Methos smiles thinly, amused by the tension all but radiating off Viktor. "And don't tell me the money, or my record with Rashid, are supposed to be enough incentive."

"Because you have no idea how miserable I can make your life if you don't. Shipments gone missing, both outbound and incoming. Intelligence agencies snooping around. Contacts who suddenly discover that you have ties to those same intelligence agencies. I'd imagine Rashid Khan would sever his acquaintance with you all on his own if he were to 'find out' that you're actually CIA."

"I'd have to find a new form of entertainment, then, wouldn't I?" His smile widens, a gleam of amusement in his expression. Viktor is making it all too easy to manuever him toward a corner, though once Methos has him there, he's not entirely certain what he'll do with him. "I can be quite... inventive when bored."

* * *

_I've dealt with some of the nastiest people on Earth - Somali warlords, Islamic fundamentalists, Russian intelligence officers turned mobster - and I'm pretty much used to being wary of and disgusted by them. I don't think I've ever been quite this frightened by a conversation._

_The mission, though, is the mission, and if you can't at least fool yourself into thinking you believe that, spying is not the line of work for you. There are things you can't let yourself do, not if you want to keep anything of who you are - but there's almost nothing you can't be willing to have done **to** you._

* * *

"I don't care how you amuse yourself, so long as you're not doing it by selling weapons to Rashid Khan."

" _Anything_ other than selling weapons to Rashid?" Afanasiy raises an eyebrow, seeming to sit up straighter without moving a muscle. Watching Michael with a speculative expression, and a stillness that is reminiscent of a predator about to strike. Somehow, Michael's just stepped into a trap - one he isn't sure what it is, and doesn't know how to get out of.

"Pretty much," he admits. "If you start dealing in smallpox or nuclear weapons, though, all bets are off." He really needs to get out of here. The last phrase is not one a Russian - or even a Pole - would have used. He's slipping badly, and he's not even sure why Afanasiy has him so rattled.

"Those aren't entertainment, they're insurance." Afanasiy stands smoothly, as if to see Michael out. "And I don't sell insurance."

Leaving has just become paramount for Michael - once he's found out a mark isn't just a gun runner, but has access to weapons of mass destruction, he isn't going to stick around and try to find them. He'll call in back-up once he's out, a **lot** of back up - a Marine black-ops team armed with P90s and grenades sounds right. It's easier to search for that sort of thing when everyone hiding it is dead, rather than working on unleashing it.

"Good to know." A gesture of good will might get him out of here - or it might not, and so he leaves the vodka in his hand untasted. "Can I assume we've reached an understanding about Rashid, then?" He's almost aching with the need to be moving, but he thinks he's doing a pretty good job of staying calm.

"That Rashid can go looking for a new supplier, yes." Afanasiy steps out from behind the table, and closer to Michael. "Let me escort you, Mr... ?" He's clearly fishing for a name beyond the alias that Michael's provided, and eventually, there's every risk that Michael will reveal it, but not yet.

And the best way to avoid the question is to ignore it, and change the subject. "I'm a big boy, Afanasiy," Michael assures him. "I don't need an escort." Even if he did, he wouldn't want this one; he's too dangerous, too unpredictable - and far too good at rattling Michael.

"That wasn't a request." Afanasiy meets Michael's eyes, his expression cold and remote as he reaches down to sweep the still-full glass of vodka off the table, not even flinching as it shattered on the stone. "I'll also insist on your removing your gun."

There's a reason Michael always carries one slightly obvious weapon, and leans forward to remove the Glock he has at the small of his back - not the weapon of choice for a Pole, but not beyond the realm of possibility, either - and setting it on the table. He has three black belts, he's rated with anything that shoots or holds an edge - and right now, it all feels unimportant. He trusts his instincts, and he knows when he's looking his own death in the face, or his own grievous wounding, one of the other. He's seeing it now, and he's damned grateful for the back-up piece on his ankle, and the knives up his sleeves.

"Where, exactly, were you planning on escorting me?" It's always best to get these little things clear in advance; an invitation to ride into the desert is to be resisted at all costs.

"Nowhere outside this home." Afanasiy doesn't move, even to pick up the Glock, though he studies Michael for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Lift the cuffs of your pants, slowly."

"I'm not that kind of boy." And Michael's not giving up his back up piece to an apparently unarmed man, no matter how nervous he makes Michael. Waitresses don't like giving up their last pen, and spies don't like giving up their last gun.

"Afraid?" Afanasiy's voice is pitched low, a smirk on his face. "I give you my word all of your weapons will be returned to you before you leave." The words weren't reassuring, and Michael suspected they weren't really meant to be. "This way, friend."


	2. Chapter 2

"I do have a name, you know." Viktor gives him a smile that's anything but real, and Methos suspects he's using the banter to hide fear. It certainly helps some people, though it rarely hides their fear enough for Methos to miss it.

"If you'd provided your real one, I might use it." Methos gives him a patient look, though he doesn't bother to hide the fact his patience is finite. "I might even be inclined to tell you mine." Not that Viktor would have a chance to share it with others before Methos had made sure the fear of the consequences of telling someone was too deeply ingrained to easily shrug off.

"Michael." A solidly Biblical name, used across nations, though the pronunciation differs from one region to another. It doesn't provide much clue to nationality - save that Michael's voice hints at American, or somewhere that's picked up American English over British English.

"Michael." Methos tilted his head toward the doors again, a faint smile gracing his face. "Please, this way." He prefers not to have to use the taser gun, but if Michael doesn't move on his own shortly, he'll grumble about having to manhandle him inside later. Of course, doing so will mean he can remove any weapons Michael is carrying before he gets him inside, which has benefits all its own.

There's a reluctance on Michael's face for a moment before it's hidden, and he turns toward the house, taking several steps before he glances over his shoulder at Methos. "Am I getting the grand tour, then?"

"Something like that, yes." Methos walks behind Michael, his footsteps nearly soundless on the series of rugs that cover the wooden floor of the house. Through the large, open room behind the balcony, and down a hallway he directs Michael toward that leads away from the front door and into the back of the house. "Through the second door on the left, Michael."

* * *

_One of the most unpleasant parts of training to be a spy is SERE school. Basically, you spend six weeks being interrogated by your own people, so that you know how it's done. You also learn to spot things like a door that looks too heavy, and hooks set just high enough in the wall to dangle an average-sized man off the floor by his arms._

* * *

"Thanks, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline. Torture chambers have never really been my kind of thing." If Afanasiy wants Michael in there, he'll have to force the issue. Michael's done a lot of stupid things for his country, but voluntarily walking into a torture chamber isn't going to be one of them. Especially not with the way Afanasiy makes his instincts twitch.

"I thought you might." Afanasiy's voice is deceptively mild, and his expression utterly distant as he fires a taser gun, the leads making contact through the cheap shirt, and sending enough voltage through Michael to make him drop, convulsing. A smile briefly appears on Afanasiy's face as he kneels down next to Michael, heaving Michael over his shoulder.

The ease of the movement speaks of practice, and the way he closes the door behind him without much effort only adds to that impression. Though he doesn't lock it, Michael doesn't fool himself into thinking he'll be able to get to it before Afanasiy restrains him.

He's dumped on the floor of the room next to a wooden trunk that hadn't been visible from below, likely deliberately so. There is a pair of handcuffs on them, and Afanasiy rolls Michael onto his stomach to secure his hands, then back over to remove the leads from the taser.

"It's a little more than a torture chamber, Michael." Though that doesn't mean that Afanasiy doesn't use it for torture, and right now, Micheal isn't going to let himself think about any other possibilities. Being tasered hurts, and it's never a good sign. When someone uses non-lethal force on a spy, it's a sign they want information before they kill that spy.

"Good to know." He's still too numb to go for the paperclip in the cuff of his sleeve, or to do much of anything, really, so he settles for glaring. It only makes another faint smile cross Afanasiy's face before he begins to search Michael, removing weapons and tools methodically and efficiently. It tells Michael that Afanasiy is as paranoid and as knowledgeable as any good agent, but it doesn't tell him more than that.

Being handcuffed and at the mercy of anyone isn't high on Michael's list of Good Things. Being handcuffed and at the mercy of a man he knows to be a gun-runner, and suspects of being sociopathic is almost enough to make him with he'd never left Miami. Almost. He's good, but even he can't get out of a pair of handcuffs without dislocating a thumb he might need to use later.

"What a cozy little room you've got here." He's trying for flippant, and probably not succeeding very well. "Reminds me of this place in Estonia."

Afanasiy raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't ask any questions, or even look remotely interested in the information that Michael is offering up. He just moves the items he's taken from Michael closer to the door, and out of immediate reach, before fishing a key out of his pocket as he returns. Not a key to the cuffs, but to the trunk he's left Michael beside, opening it only long enough to take out a long chain and a pair of padlocks that he opens with the second key on the ring with the key to the trunk.

One end of the chain is locked to the chain of the handcuffs, and the other looped around a ring in the wall far enough away to keep Michael from reaching the stairs, but not so far as to keep him away from the trunk.

"I'll be back in a moment, I need to lock the weapons in the safe downstairs." He takes the weapons with him, and locks the door, though he leaves the trunk unlocked. It's not an oversight, any more than anything else he's done has been, that much Michael is certain of.

Getting the trunk open isn't exactly easy, but he managed, and winces. After a decade as a spy, he's seeing tools that he doesn't recognize, and that's not a good sign. The chains aren't long enough for him to actually reach into the trunk and get anything that might allow him to pick the lock. He's in the process of trying to dislocate his left thumb - not an easy thing to do, even though he has done it before - when the door opens again.

* * *

_The trick about torture is that the longer you keep talking, the less likely they are to start hurting you. You give away what you have to, and you start small. If they have you long enough, you'll end up sharing everything. The small stuff is a good way to distract them while you figure a way out of the mess you're in before you're too badly injured to effect an escape._

_And when you're left alone in a torture chamber you have no way of getting out of any time soon, you want to have as much of a look around as you can manage. Knowing what's coming is always easier than a fear of the unknown. Of course, that only works when you can figure out what the various tools they have might be used for._

* * *

The open trunk when he returns isn't a surprise, and Methos simply closes it again before reaching down to haul Michael to his feet by one arm. He keeps his expression remote, almost cold, as he drags him over to the wall where he's attached the chain. It's less likely to make Michael freak out than the amusement at the constants of humanity, the constant attempts to escape and regain what freedom they had before their capture even if they have no hope of succeeding at that attempt.

"I'll remove the handcuffs in a moment, if you'll be patient, Michael." His voice is low and almost gentle, a careful contrast to his expression. He leaves Michael next to the wall while he goes to lock the door, and hang the key in a place where it's difficult to get to, and impossible to effect a rapid escape from even then.

Once he's done that, Methos doesn't have any qualms about releasing Michael from the handcuffs, or putting them and the chain back into the trunk. He can move fast enough to prevent escape, and he doubts Michael is quite foolish enough to attempt that at the moment.

Sitting on the lid of the trunk once he closes it, he watches Michael, waiting to see what he will attempt. There's a bit of confusion in his face for a moment before he controls it, returning Methos' bland expression with one of his own.

"What do you want?" It's rather blunt for an agent, but Methos isn't really surprised by the question. He's not playing by the usual rules of a captor, after all.

"My name is Methos." Methos isn't surprised, but he's also not planning to actually answer that question. There are too many different potential answers, all true to some degree. Some are more long-term than others, and he hasn't decided if he prefers a student or something of a companion, for as long as he can keep him around. It's been too long since he's truly had that sort of thing, and the mess with Kronos has only brought those memories to the surface.

"Until I decide otherwise, you belong to me."

"In exchange for what?" There's wariness clear in Michael's expression, and behind it, still some hint of the confusion of earlier. "You can't possibly think I'm going to agree to this without some serious quid pro quo."

Methos smiles, chuckling quietly. Michael doesn't even really know what he's pretending he has a choice in. Though Methos is willing to offer some reassurances to keep Michael from fighting too hard. Some fight is enjoyable, and he doesn't really want to break Michael. Mold him, change him, and bend him, yes. But not break him.

"I will stop selling guns to Rashid, and turn over the location of my personal stash of biological weapons." One of them, anyway, and not the one which holds the remaining samples of the virus Kronos had created - and altered more than he'd told Methos in Bordeaux. That stash is Methos' personal insurance, his trigger for an apocalypse if he ever truly became that bored with or furious at the world again.

"You were the one who said you didn't care how I amused myself, so long as it didn't involve selling guns to Rashid Khan, and I'm willing to be generous."

Even a good agent can't completely hide their reaction to the threat of biological weapons. Mortals still have no more defense against them than they ever have, nor any real way to detect them before people start dying, and so they fear them.

"And the... conditions of this ownership?" There are things that no agent would accept - betraying those to whom they're actually loyal to, overwhelming torture that leads to insanity or permanent disability. Not that Methos would want Michael insane or incapable of most any physical feat he's likely capable of now.

"You don't share my name, you wear and eat what I provide you, you do as I tell you, and you do not leave this room without me accompanying you."

* * *

_This isn't the sort of thing they warned me about at Langley. They warned me against pissing off the Iranians, about always carrying a second gun - but the possibility that some gun-runner might decide he wanted to use me as a pet? Never came up._

_However, to get my hands on the stocks Methos - another alias, probably, but worth committing to memory - has of biologicals, I'm willing to do very nearly anything. I won't spill America's secrets on command, or serve as an assassin for innocents, but that's a very short list that neither appears on his list of requirements. And I've done worse things, if not necessarily harder things._

* * *

"That's it?" It's so little as to be suspicious in and of itself, and it sets Michael to considering all the angles. He didn't have anything immediate to do after this particular op, so it's nothing time-related, and it probably isn't aimed at America. "Provided you guarantee that I'll leave sane, alive, and in one piece, I agree."

"Sanity is relative." Methos' lips twitch as if he's suppressing a smile. "But I won't leave you broken, physically or mentally. Alive, of course, is part of a desirable outcome." There's something else under all that, but Michael can't figure it out right now. He has time to figure it out, though.

Methos is watching him with a faint smile now, a hint of calculation in his expression. "Strip, down to the skin." It's a simple enough order, likely more to see if Michael really is agreeing to his conditions, and will obey, than anything else. Potentially humiliating, but not always.

And Michael has no reason to disobey. He'd gotten over body modesty pretty quickly in the Army, and Methos already had all of his weapons. No reason - except for the little part of me that might actually want to. He ignores it, thinks _biologicals_ , and complies. Jacket first, then shirt and shoes and socks. Michael tends to try to avoid all but a select few actually seeing him naked - there are too many scars to explain away to anyone but another professional - but he has no choice.

As long as he keeps telling himself that, maybe he can keep pretending there's no part of him that might secretly want this. Pants next - he doesn't usually bother with underwear, because it takes up space in a suitcase that can be better used for a spare gun or two. By the time he's finished, he's having to fight to control his breathing, and other things.

Once Michael has stripped, Methos stands, opening the trunk once more to pull out a pair of fleece-lined leather cuffs. Moving with a predatory grace, he circles Michael, studying each of the scars for a moment before he stops in front of him, holding the cuffs in one hand. "Hands out, palms up."

Michael has played these kind of games before, but only with Fiona, never with another man. The lining is, at least, a hopeful sign, and the cuffs are a welcome distraction from the effect that being studied as Methos is doing is having on him. He does as he's told while he tries to figure out the angles - to figure out why a man like Methos would give up everything he'd agreed to for something like this. As much as he's trying to distract himself, though, there's nothing that can stop the faint, reminiscent shiver that runs through him as the cuffs are closed around his wrists.

* * *

_When someone offers to give up WMDs, especially biologicals, for something like this, there has to be an angle. And no matter what they tell you, believing that reason is all the reason they have is stupid. I can't afford to think that boredom is Methos' only reason for this, but the only other possibility that leaps to mind isn't particularly bright, either._

_No one with any native intelligence tries to brainwash a trained spy, not one on one, anyway. It's too easy for the intended victim to get inside your head, either as well, or instead. I wouldn't put it past Methos to want that, but I can't think he's that stupid, not if I want to get out of this alive._

* * *

Michael's reaction to the cuffs is interesting, and Methos wonders for a split second if he's done something similar before, though he quickly dismisses the thought. He can ask later, and expect to be answered, but it's not important right now. All that's important right now is eliciting reactions, to pick at the edges of Michael's psyche and see what he can of what makes him tick.

Stepping away, he retrieves the long chain he'd used earlier, and a stool that he keeps tucked in the area over the door, to allow him enough extra height to thread the chain through a loop on the ceiling. It's long enough to allow Michael to stand firmly on the floor, and once the cuffs are locked in place, to bring one hand down to his face, so long as the other is stretched high over his head.

"Why the trade?" Michael's voice is a little rough, probably a mix of emotions - he can't be comfortable, and may even be somewhat worried, since Methos hasn't been particularly talkative about what he intends. That he's managed to stick to Russian is impressive, when Methos is certain it's not his first language. What his first language is, he's uncertain, but there are a few likely choices when dealing with a spy - some that wouldn't be likely with Michael's physical appearance.

Methos shrugs, pulling out a small wooden box from the trunk, setting it on top. "Because I can." Because manipulating individuals is as entertaining as manipulating governments, and both simpler and more complex at the same time. It wouldn't be the first time he's done so, even recently.

He removes the lid from the box, setting it aside, and then pulls out a thin-bladed knife that is only part of the kit inside. There's a small bottle of oil, gloves, and a collection of tiny vials of essential oils on one side. The knife, a whetstone, a soft cloth, and a pot of salve take up the other side. The salve is an old recipe he's used for centuries, when he could collect the ingredients he needed to compound it.

Methos watches Michael as he lays out what he intends to use, cataloging the fleeting bits of emotion that cross his face. The salve remains sealed in its jar; it will be more useful later, but not now. He makes a show of studying his small collection of essential oils before picking a trio that will do what he wants, setting them and the oil aside to mix later. Methos knows Michael will be curious about it, and keeps silent as he works.

He tests the edge of the knife against his thumb, smiling at the momentary welling of blood from a clean cut, and knowing Michael will see both the cut and see it heal.

* * *

_I've been trained to disbelieve most of what I see, and almost all of what I hear, but there's no way around the fact that Methos' thumb healed. He sliced deeply enough that he ought to still be bleeding - but I've got very good eyes, and there's not even a trace of an injury left on his thumb. There's also no way to fake that kind of minor injury. Fatal gunshots can be faked; minor injuries really can't._

* * *

Michael mentally curses Fiona for his reaction to chains and cuffs, even to knives sometimes, but the sight of the knife had at first been as reassuring as the oils weren't. He's prepared for torture - though if Methos starts doing serious damage, he'll have to fight and take his chances, even if it does re-break his not-quite-healed ribs - but he's sure he's prepared for whatever Methos has planned.

When Methos tests the knife against his thumb, and the cut heals, Michael stares, and gasps, "The _fuck_?"

In English. It's the worst slip-up he's made in his entire career. He's not thinking at this point, just reacting, and like everyone else, he swears in his first language in a situation like that.

It's a little harder to dislocate his thumb when his hands are over his head, and the cuffs are lined, but he twists his left wrist anyway, ready to try. If he can get one hand free, the length of chain attached to the other becomes a weapon, rather than an encumbrance.

Methos moves as fast as any trained special-ops soldier in his prime, away from the trunk in a split-second, and one hand wrapped around Michael's throat, if not tight enough to cut off breath. The other hand still holds the knife, and the edge is cold against his skin, just above the warmth of Methos' hand. A gaze that's equally as cold, and dark with danger, meets his, the rest of his expression frighteningly blank. There's a willingness there to ignore any agreement, and leave Michael dead of a slit throat if he continues to move.

"Attempting to escape would be a violation of our agreement, Michael." Methos' voice is conversational, almost bland, in sharp counterpoint to his expression.

"So would taking that knife to me." Michael slides back into Russian, keeping his voice calm thanks to long practice. He relaxes slightly when Methos doesn't say anything about his slip, letting the tension slide out of his arms. Maybe Methos is enough of a polyglot that he doesn't notice language changes when only a few words are used; Michael's known a couple people like that.

The knife is cool and sharp against his skin, and he knows he's as close to death as he's ever been. Part of Michael thinks he should take that last step, force Methos' hand. The rest of him, the part that wants to **live** as well as the part that wants all the answers, holds him back. He hopes he doesn't come to regret living. Then again, if worst comes to worst, he's sure he can make Methos kill him - can make it clear that he's too much of a threat to be left alive a moment longer.

"No permanent damage, remember?" he adds, and smiles.

Methos returns the smile with one that's sharp and cold before he steps back. "I don't intend to leave permanent damage, Michael." There's no comfort in knowing that, not with the precision in his movements, in the pressure he'd put on Michael's throat.

Another involuntary shiver goes through Michael, and he can't tell whether it's fear or anticipation of another sort entirely. He's telling himself it's relief, though. As long as he can keep at least one layer of fake personality between them, he can keep Methos from getting too far into his head.

"Good to know. You keep your bargain, I'll keep mine." Michael decides to push a little. At no point had Methos said Michael isn't allowed to ask questions. "How'd you heal your thumb that fast?"

"I didn't heal it; it healed on its own." Methos circles Michale, the knife held lightly between his fingers - though Michael didn't doubt that is as calculated as anything else here. He can't see Methos behind him, but he knows when Methos steps closer, the flat of the blade cold against one of Michael's shoulder-blades. "I just heal very quickly."

"That's a neat party trick." Michael shivers a little, feeling goosebumps starting to form on his skin. There's a reason he prefers long sleeves, even in the middle of a heatwave. Stripped like this, he's naked in more than one sense of the word.

* * *

_Keeping your voice even is one thing. Preventing your body from reacting is another thing entirely. I don't care how good you are, how well you're trained - **no one** can stop muscles from twitching or goosebumps from forming. It's possible to control your breathing - but when you're stripped naked, that sort of attempt for control shows as much as if you hadn't tried it at all._

* * *

Methos chuckles, watching Michael's reaction with satisfaction. "I've found it useful from time to time." He pulls away enough to see what he's doing, turning the knife slightly, sliding it along a line of muscle down Michael's back. Keeping his attention on Michael's reactions as he draws a line in beads of blood from Michael's shoulder to the base of his spine.

He's silent, moving around Michael slowly, his pressure on the knife steady, just enough to break skin as he follows the line of Michael's hip, stopping once he's in front of Michael. Breaking contact with the knife a moment, meeting Michael's gaze before he rests the point against the dip of Michael's collarbone.

Michael's pupils are dilated, his cock half-hard, though he looks back at Methos steadily, the only sign on his expression of his tension the clenching of his jaw. As if he's trying to ignore all of this, which Methos knows he can't, not entirely. It's one of the ironies of life that shallow wounds can hurt all out of proportion to their seriousness, at least when freshly delivered. Right now, he's no doubt feeling the line Methos has drawn like a line of fire, rather than a cut.

The human reaction to pain had fascinated him when he'd rode with Kronos, how it could focus attention, heighten arousal, and elicit terror and devotion in equal measure. Each individual's reaction different and intriguing. Methos cuves his lips up in a faint smile before dragging the tip of the knife down to Michael's navel, pulling it back again after.

Slowly circling again, each cut drawn out and shallow, from Michael's neck to his hips. Wiping the blood on the leg of his trousers from time to time, unconcerned for the stains he's leaving on them. Keeping a careful eye on Michael's reactions - his arousal, the way his breath becomes shallow, almost a pant - stopping when Michael's torso is smeared with blood.

The expression on Michael's face is more ragged now, less controlled, and Methos can see both fury and desire. A balance, to keep Michael caught between them so he's not quite sure which he should feel, or if he should feel neither or both.

Methos smiles at the expression, turning away after a moment, making sure the knife blade is clean before he returns it to its place. Picking up the pot of salve, he leaves the lid aside, and scoops some out. It will sting as he smooths it into the cuts, but it will help keep them from becoming inflamed and infected, allowing them to heal cleanly.

"Hold still," he murmurs, pressing his fingers along each cut, making sure they're all thoroughly smeared with the salve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I had enough words edited for another chapter to go up earlier than I'd hoped. The next chapter won't be up _before_ the end of August, but since I won't have any other projects with time constraints at that point, hopefully I will be able to get it edited and up for the end of August or beginning of September. :)


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